


Durin's Day

by Maggiemaye



Series: Under the Mountain [12]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Drunken Shenanigans, Durin Family Feels, Gen, Homecoming, because dwarves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 03:05:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4331376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maggiemaye/pseuds/Maggiemaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Therin listens to him in silence as he sings, never moving a muscle, listening raptly to each word. And Thorin can see that this is indeed a child of Durin, even with the ears and the strange piercing gaze. He looks into the lad’s wide dark eyes, and knows in that moment that Ered Luin will never again be home for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Durin's Day

After the fifth hour of merry-making amongst friends and kin, Thorin is finally ready to admit that it was a good idea to return to Erebor, at least for a time. Bilbo had urged him to make the journey for Durin’s Day, the fiftieth since they had taken back the mountain. Thorin had resisted for weeks, until the hobbit’s incessant attempts at persuasion had finally worn him down. So he’d travelled from the safety of Ered Luin, through the Shire to pick up Bilbo, and on to the Lonely Mountain, quietly petrified all the while.

 His anxiety is much eased now, however, by the time-honored dwarven tradition of consuming incredible amounts of alcohol in as little time as possible. Not that he has indulged himself much tonight—five drinks, at most—but it does him good to see his friends and kin setting responsibility aside for an evening. He has not been in the company of these dwarrow for fifty years, and yet tonight they are able to pretend that no time at all has passed.

The day had begun with a public ceremony of remembrance for the line of Durin that had passed before (throughout which Thorin had stood immobile next to Bilbo with his heart in his throat), followed by a massive feast for the entirety of the mountain. Thorin is certain that such a quantity of food and drink had never before been seen in one place; the feast had been every bit as lavish as the Durin’s Day celebrations he remembers from the Erebor of old.

Fili had officiated the ceremonies with the regal grace befitting a King Under the Mountain. Watching him had filled Thorin with immeasurable pride even as it had gutted him. Fili has gone from a cocky young lad to a self-assured king, and Thorin has missed it all.

It had been necessary, of course, for him to leave the mountain, to ease his own conscience as well as to spare his people from yet another mad king. That way, he had reasoned, he would never need to find out what had truly caused his sickness—the gold, the mountain, the Arkenstone, or simply his own madness that had lain dormant for so long. When they discuss it, Bilbo speculates that it is some combination thereof. Unlike Thorin, however, Bilbo does not accept it as a valid excuse to avoid the mountain.

“Put the past to bed, Thorin. You’ve been hiding away too long, if you ask me,” the hobbit had scolded him. “Go for the sake of your family, if nothing else. You know what it would mean to them to see you.”

So Thorin finds himself back in the place of his dreams and nightmares, watching his heir wear the crown.  

Fili had done what Thorin himself would never have been able to—he had buried the Arkenstone in his first act as king, making it known that Erebor only had room for those willing to follow an heir of Durin regardless of what jewels may or may not adorn his throne. Neither Fili nor his brother had grown up seeing the stone day in and day out; neither of them had felt its seductive pull or its weight of expectation. Tradition, in general, holds very little significance for them. It is what has allowed Fili the freedom to become the great king that he is.

Even so, Thorin can see that his nephew’s shoulders are visibly lightened without the eyes of his kingdom upon him. The public festivities have ended, and the royal family and trusted friends have retreated to the royal dining hall to carouse in privacy. Fili’s step regains some of the jaunty swing of his youth as he takes up his fiddle, regaling the company with a reel. His playing is precise and well-executed despite his inebriation, and the fact that his golden braids are falling haphazardly into his eyes. Ori and Nori take up the reel as well, singing a barely-coherent chorus that becomes more laughter than song. The noise of the hall is deafening. Food is flying, cutlery is being abused, and it all reminds Thorin fondly of the day he and the company had terrorized Bag-End. However, he does not need to look far to realize that things have indeed changed.

For one thing, Kili’s son is taking part in their revelry, seated down the table across from Gimli. A pint of ale is clutched in his slender, elegant hand, spilling over the sides as he swings his arm out. For all his elvish appearance, Nethelion is clearly partial to the way of the dwarrow when it comes to merry-making. Of course, the fact that he is just barely old enough to drink might contribute to his enthusiasm. Thorin never imagined that he would have the chance to meet Kili’s offspring, let alone witness one deep in his cups. And he truly never imagined that said offspring would have an elven mother.

The elf in question is primly passed out on the floor after a game of drinks with Master Dwalin, her gilded cup leaving a trickle of wine from where it has rolled out of her hand. The raucous shouts of the company rouse her not at all; she does not even budge when Ori stumbles over her ankles on his way to the dessert table. It is the closest to undignified that Thorin has ever seen one of the Eldar behave, and he cannot stifle a snort at the sight. Next to him, Kili gazes at her from his seat at the table, looking just as stupidly besotted as he had in the elvish dungeons.

“It seems your elf has come to fit in well under the mountain,” Thorin remarks dryly.

“Oh, yes, she’s practically a dwarrowdam herself by now.” Kili’s reply is cheerful, if quite slurred, as he takes another swig from his tankard. “But don’t go telling Mam I said so. Fifty years and I think she still hopes I’ll forget the elf business.”

Thorin chuckles at this. A few seats away, Bilbo hears his laughter and looks over at him, smiling. _I told you so,_ his eyes say. Thorin’s answering hand gesture draws laughter from the surrounding dwarrow and a good-natured huff from Bilbo.

He spends several more minutes in silence, letting the party flow around him. Several of his old friends approach him for a joke or a toast, becoming comfortable with him again. Fifty years of absence is considerable ground to make up, but for dwarrow, one night of revelry can often do more mending than a dozen weighty talks. Thorin does his best not to feel like a total stranger as they tell him about decades’ worth of missed moments; of weddings, children born, and loved ones passed on to Mahal’s forges. Dori has been with their maker five years already; his absence is a gaping hole in the company, and many toasts are made in his honor.

There is a distinct feeling of home about it all, something he has missed since returning alone to Ered Luin. He has a good life there; his work in the forges is enough to support him very comfortably, and his counsel is sought on occasion to settle disputes of land or property, though he has sworn off any type of leadership role. Every so often he visits the Shire, or receives Bilbo in the mountains, and the hobbit’s companionship eases the sting of loneliness. But that life is pale compared to _this,_ the halls of his fathers filled with kin and loved ones! The thought of returning to the Blue Mountains already brings a sinking feeling to the pit of his stomach.

Once the revelry crests it dies down rather quickly, as the alcohol begins to lull the dwarrow into fuzzy half-awareness. Perhaps it is the drop in noise level, or Thorin’s sobriety compared to the rest of his companions, that allows him to detect the sudden flash of red in the corner of his eye.

A child is peeking in through the crack in the doorway, one wide eye and large pointed ear visible from behind the heavy stone. Thorin distinctly remembers Kili and Tauriel sending their younger children to bed shortly after the feast, but it seems this one is bound and determined not to comply. Clapping a slightly swaying Dwalin on the shoulder as he rises from his seat, Thorin makes his way across the hall toward the young flame-haired visitor.

“What brings you out of bed, lad?”

Therin looks up at him with an earnest, serious expression. “I want to talk to Adad.”

Thorin sneaks a glance back at his nephew, who has joined his unconscious wife on the floor. He is awake, but only barely, clumsily smoothing back strands of her long red hair that have stuck to her parted lips. Thorin watches as he accidentally pokes her eye in the process; she swats his hand away, her aim sure even in a drunken slumber.

Needless to say, Kili is indisposed.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait till tomorrow for that. Late tomorrow, most likely.”

“But I _need_ to talk to him. I…had a nightmare.”

The lad fixes him with an urgent look, and Thorin can see the exhaustion on his small face; the skin beneath his eyes is purpling. He gives a solemn nod, wondering how many nights Therin’s dreams have disturbed him.

“That, I do know a little something about. Come now, let us walk.”

Therin shrugs, and they leave the dining hall behind. Silence descends heavily between them. Thorin wonders if he should attempt some sort of small talk—he has not interacted much with children since Fili and Kili were lads—but Therin looks content to walk quietly beside him. After leading the lad down several corridors and around corners that he still knows by heart, Thorin pushes open the door to the Chamber of Kings.

The room is not exactly as he remembers. The statues are smaller, for one thing, and they are not laden with quite as many glittering gems. But the atmosphere is much the same; a gilded monument to Durin’s line. The statues are finely made and beautiful, of course, but Thorin feels no lust when he looks at them. Heartened by this, he steps forward to examine each statue. There is a golden likeness of Thror, and Thrain (he touches the signet ring on the finger as he passes this statue), and the rest of the line stretching back to Durin the Deathless. He smiles at the likeness of Dis next to one of their mother. But the smile is quickly swallowed when he comes face to face with a very familiar image. A nearly perfect rendering of himself as a dwarf in his prime, holding the oaken branch he was named for. It is a day he has done his best never to think about again, and now it is immortalized in gold.

Thorin turns away.

“I often came here at night as a child,” he tells Therin, stopping in front of his monument but looking pointedly at the ground. “I felt as though the statues would protect me.”

The lad comes to stand next to him, gazing up at the statue with a placid expression.    

“Amad said that I’m named for you,” he says. “Therin. Thorin. Almost the same.”

“Yes,” says Thorin, uncertain where this is going. “I believe so. And your uncle Frerin, as well.” He gestures to the statue of his brother across the way, but the lad still examines the golden Thorin. He looks at them side by side, the monument and the dwarf it depicts, and Thorin gets the distinct feeling that he is being sized up.

“Why don’t you tell me about the dream, lad?”

Therin sighs. “It’s stupid, I think. I don’t even really remember it. But I can never go to sleep after. And Nethelion says I’m too old to have nightmares. He says they’re for babies.”

Thorin shakes his head. “In time your brother will learn what you and I already know. Fear strikes no matter how young or old, but we cannot overcome it until we meet it face to face.”

He almost laughs at the thought of what Bilbo would say if he were listening. _That’s rich coming from you, after you’ve been hiding away for half a century._ But it is a good piece of advice all the same, and Therin nods steadily. He does not smile, but there does seem to be a new lightness about him. Thorin almost cannot believe that this calm child is a son of Kili, who had been so irrepressible as a lad.  

“What are your nightmares about, Uncle?”

The question conjures a string of images in Thorin’s mind, of flames and screaming and rivers of poisoned gold. His sister weeping. Bilbo dangling off the high balcony, terrified. As long as he lives, this image will never leave him.

“Many things, lad. Old fears and new.”

“But how do you make it better?”

“These days I hardly know,” he sighs. “But when I was a child, my father would often sing to me.”

Therin looks up at him expectantly, as if to say, _Well?_

The song that comes to Thorin’s mind is not one of his father’s lullabies, however. He thinks of the song that had sustained his people through the years of wandering, grief, and shame. It is the only song that seems right to sing in this room, amongst the monuments to their ancestors.

_“Far over the Misty Mountains cold…”_

Therin listens to him in silence as he sings, never moving a muscle, listening raptly to each word. And Thorin can see that this is indeed a child of Durin, even with the ears and the strange piercing gaze. He looks into the lad’s wide dark eyes, and knows in that moment that Ered Luin will never again be home for him.

Therin blinks several times when the song concludes. His eyes rest not on the gold likeness of Thorin Oakenshield, but on the flesh and blood dwarf who is his uncle.

“Are you going to stay here a long time, Uncle?” he inquires. “I think you should.”

“And why is that?”

“I like you,” he declares with the weight of a royal decree, and Thorin smiles. “And you like it here, I can tell. And you can teach me to sing that song.”

Thorin chuckles, but also he thinks. His nephews are settled and wed, Kili already a father four times over. In the spring, Fili will become one as well. He thinks of what it would be like to witness that himself, and he is surprised at the strength of his longing.

He could convince Bilbo to stay, or at least make extended visits. Considering the gusto with which the hobbit had embraced the Durin’s Day festivities, he doubts it would take much convincing. He could watch Therin grow into his substantial ears—or not, as the case might be. He and his siblings are quite unprecedented, after all. It would be something indeed to see them grow.

In the quiet of this place, Thorin can envision a life taking shape for him under the mountain. He can live here, in his rightful home, without sitting upon the throne. He is much older and wiser now; wise enough, in fact, to see that he does not need to possess Erebor in order to treasure it.

Children have a way of making everything simple. But perhaps, this time, it truly _is._

“You should stay,” Therin says again, emphatically. “Adad will think so too.”

Yes, Thorin thinks. It could work. For the first time in fifty years, he entertains the idea of hope.

“Perhaps I will, lad. Perhaps I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi again, and thank you for reading! A few things:
> 
> For the record, I see Thorin and Bilbo as having a very deep and very platonic relationship. But I think the beauty of stories and fanfiction is that others see things differently. So if you'd like to read Bagginshield into this, more power to you, friends :)
> 
> I see Therin as being the equivalent of about 9-10 years old in this. Also, it's very easy to get Therin and Thorin mixed up while writing :P Thanks again for coming by, and as always feel free to let me know what you think!


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